Running Blind / The Freedom Trap

by Desmond Bagley

  Someone else said, ‘Mother of God, will you look at it! It’ll burn the house down.’

  ‘Let it burn. We’re done for here, anyway, if Rearden escapes.’

  I stepped out into the corridor and hastened away from the staircase and, turning a corner, came upon the back stairs. I trotted down quickly, depending on speed to get to the ground floor before the searchers spread out. And I made it, too, only to find the back door wide open and a man standing before it. That would be Dillon.

  Fortunately, he was not looking in my direction as I came down the back stairs, but was staring up the wide passage which led to the front of the house. I oozed my way into a side passage and out of his line of sight and then let out my breath inaudibly. No doubt I could have overcome Dillon, but not without noise, and noise would have brought the lot on top of me.

  The first door I opened led into a broom closet—useless because it had no window. But the second door led into a well-stocked larder and there was a sash window. I closed the door gently and tackled the window which evidently hadn’t been opened for years because it was very tight. As I forced it open it groaned and rattled alarmingly and I stopped to see if Dillon had heard it. But there was no sound apart from a few heavy thumps upstairs.

  I attacked the window again and got it open at last, a mere nine inches or so, but enough to take me. I went through head first and landed in a bed of nettles, but fortunately screened from the back door by a large water-butt. As I rubbed my stinging hands I looked about and felt a bit depressed as I noted the high stone wall which seemed to encircle the house. The only gate within view was directly opposite the open back door and if I tried to leave that way Dillon would certainly spot me.

  A trickle of water ran down my neck. It was beginning to rain really hard, which was in my favour. The wind was strong and blowing sheets of rain across the kitchen garden. If I could get into the open countryside I stood a chance of getting clean away because the low visibility was in my favour. But it wasn’t as low as that—Dillon could certainly see from the back door to the garden gate.

  The water-butt wasn’t going to collect much rain; it was rotten and useless, and a stave had come away from the hoops. I picked it up and hefted it thoughtfully. No one, least of all Dillon, would expect me to go back into the house, and one of the major arts of warfare is the attack from the unexpected direction. I grasped the stave in both hands, sidled up to the back door, and then stepped through boldly.

  Dillon heard me coming and must have noticed the dimming of the light as I blocked the entrance. But he was very slow in turning his head. ‘Found him?’ he asked, and then his eyes widened as he saw who it was. He didn’t have time to do much about it because I swung the stave at him and caught him on the side of the head. His head was harder than the stave which, rotten as it was, splintered in two—but it was hard enough to lay Dillon out.

  Even as he fell I turned and ran for the gate, dropping the remnant of the stave as I went. The gate wasn’t locked and within seconds I was through and walking in a dampish country lane. That wasn’t good enough because it was too open, so I ran to the left until I found a gate leading into a field, over which I jumped and then sheltered in the lee of a hedgerow.

  Rain dripped on to my face from the brim of my hat as I looked across the field, trying to remember the layout of the land as I had seen it from that upstairs window. If I went across that field I would come to a wood beyond which was the road I had seen. I set off at a brisk pace and didn’t look back.

  Only when I was sheltered in the wood did I stop to check on my tracks. There was no sign of pursuit and, over the house, I thought I saw an eddying streamer of black smoke, although I could have been wrong because of the wind-driven rain.

  I reached the other side of the wood and left by a gate and came out on to the road. But before I got to the gate I heard again the light clip-clip of hooves, together with a clinking sound and that pleasant fluting whistle. I opened the gate and looked up the road. A flat cart was just passing, drawn by a donkey, and a man was sitting holding the reins and whistling like a blackbird. A couple of cans which might have held milk clinked behind him on the cart.

  I watched it go and tried to figure out which country I was in. The donkey cart looked as though it could be Spanish but, surely to God, it never rained like this in Spain except, maybe, in the plain. I watched the cart recede into the distance and found I couldn’t even tell which side of the road he was supposed to be on because he drove dead centre.

  I turned and looked up the road the other way. In the distance I could see an approaching bus and, on the other side, a man was waiting by a bus stop. I noted that the bus was coming up on the left of the road so it was pretty certain I was still in England. I was surer of it still when I crossed the road and the man turned a shining red countryman’s face towards me, and said, ’ ‘Tis a grand, soft morning.’

  I nodded, and the rain dripped from the brim of my hat. ‘Yes.’

  Then my self-confidence received a sudden jolt because when I looked up at the sign above my head I found it was written in two languages, English and another, and the second wasn’t even in Roman script but in some weird characters I had never seen before, although they were vaguely familiar.

  The bus was coming along the road very slowly. From where I was standing I could see the roof and the top storey of the house, from which a column of black smoke was rising. I switched my gaze back to the bus and wished the bloody thing would get a move on. I felt terribly vulnerable.

  On impulse I put my hand into my pocket and fished out some of the loose change I had looted from Fatface. The first coin I examined was apparently a penny, but certainly not an English one. It depicted a hen and chickens and underneath was a single word in that odd script—a word I couldn’t even read. I turned the coin over in my fingers and nearly dropped it in surprise.

  On this side was a harp and the inscription in the strange script, but this time it was readable. It said: ‘Eire—1964.’

  My God, I was in Ireland!

  SEVEN

  The bus drew up and because I was now screened from the house, some of the tension left me. However, so preoccupied had I been with my discovery, I had neglected to look at the destination board of the bus. Damn silly omissions of that kind can be the death of one, and I felt a bit of a fool as I sat down. I took Fatface’s wallet from my breast pocket and riffled through the bank notes. Most of them were British Bank of England fivers but there were some Irish pound notes, so I took one of those as I didn’t know if British currency was acceptable in Ireland.

  The conductor came up and I held out a pound note. ‘All the way,’ I said casually.

  ‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘That’ll be two-and-tuppence.’ He gave me the ticket and counted the change into my hand. I hung on to it until he had moved away and then examined it. It was interesting to see that half the coinage was British, so it seemed as though all the currency in Fatface’s wallet would be readily negotiable.

  So here I was, going ‘all the way’ and with not a notion in my head about where I was going. It was bloody ridiculous! I looked at the passing scene and found nothing to tell me where the devil I was. Ireland! What did I know about Ireland?

  The answer came without much thought—practically nothing! Ireland was a page in the atlas I hadn’t bothered to study, and Irishmen were comic characters given to fighting. There were also vague ideas of revolution and civil war—the Black and Tans and armed insurrection—but that had been a long time ago, although I had read of recent trouble in Northern Ireland.

  The bus stopped to take on passengers and before it started again a fire engine went by with a clanging bell, going the other way at a hell of a clip. Necks were craned to follow its passage and I smiled. During my getaway a gun had gone off and someone had screamed, so there was probably someone in the house with a gunshot wound, a circumstance which Fatface might have difficulty in explaining away.

  The bus trundled on, going
God knows where. We passed a place called Cratloe which didn’t sound particularly Irish, but there was a sign pointing the other way to Bunratty, which did. A big jet came over—a commercial air liner, not a military job—and circled widely, losing altitude and obviously intending to land somewhere nearby. From nowhere a name clicked in my mind—Shannon Airport. That was the Irish international airport, but I hadn’t a clue where in Ireland it was.

  I mentally added an item to the list of things urgently required—maps.

  We pressed on and the sun came out, shining through the rain to make a rainbow. There were more houses here, and a racecourse—and then a magic word—Limerick. So that’s where I was! It didn’t make a great deal of difference; all I knew of Limerick was the one about the girl from Khartoum. But it was a big, busy city and that was something to be thankful for; I could get lost in a town of this size.

  I got off the bus before it reached the centre of town and the conductor looked at me in a puzzled way—but that might have been my imagination. The reason I dropped off was that I had seen a biggish bookshop which could give me what I wanted most of all—information. I walked back the hundred yards to the shop and went inside, drifting casually from counter to counter until I found what I wanted.

  It was there in plenty. There were a score of guidebooks to choose from, and any number of maps from folded sheets to bound volumes. I disregarded the antiquarian and literary guides and settled for a closely printed compendium of information. I also bought a single sheet motoring map which would fold for the pocket, a writing pad, a packet of envelopes and a newspaper, paying with one of Fatface’s fivers. I took this booty into a tea-shop next door and settled to examine it over a pot of weak tea and a few stale buns—it was that kind of tea-shop.

  The map told me that Limerick was at the head of the Shannon estuary and, as I had suspected, not very far from Shannon Airport. The house from which I had escaped was to the north of Limerick, somewhere between Sixmilebridge and Cratloe, very handily placed for Fatface and his crew, a mere fifteen minutes’ drive from the airport.

  I poured another cup of lukewarm tea and opened the newspaper to find that Slade and Rearden were still very much in the news and even on the front page, but that might have been because Detective-Inspector Brunskill had arrived in Dublin, which would make for local interest. There was a photograph showing him getting off the aircraft and when questioned about what he expected to find, he said, tight-lipped, ‘No comment.’ Detective-Inspector Forbes was just back in London from Brussels where he reported, ‘No joy!’

  Of course, Slade made the running in the newspaper much more than I did; a spy has more glamour than a jewel thief. But, from the way Brunskill and Forbes were running around, I wasn’t being neglected. Those two had been picked because they could identify me by sight, and it seemed they had a lot of travelling still to do because Rearden had been seen in the Isle of Man, Jersey, the Côte d’Azure, Ostend, Manchester, Wolverhampton, Regent Street, Bergen and Middle Wallop. I wondered if Detective-Sergeant Jervis was just as busy.

  The tea-shop was empty so I pulled out the wallet and opened it. First I counted the money; it was important and I couldn’t get far without it. There was a total of £78, mostly in British fivers, which was most welcome. There was also a British driving licence which was even more welcome. I wanted to be mobile which meant hiring a car, something I couldn’t do without producing a driving licence. It was made out in the name of Richard Allen Jones, which sounded phoney on the face of it, although the name could have been genuine. There are a few Joneses around; there must be for the rest of us to keep up with.

  There was a letter which made no sense at all because it was written in an unknown language. I tasted the words on my tongue and thought I detected faintly Slavic overtones but I could have been wrong; eastern languages are my strong point. I pondered over it for some time then carefully put it away without becoming any the wiser.

  The thin notebook was of more interest because it contained a few addresses scattered through the pages—some in Ireland, some in England and others in France, Italy and Spain. It gave me a jolt to find the address of Anglo-Scottish Holdings Ltd, in London; Mackintosh’s cover was blown wide open.

  There were two Irish addresses, one in the Irish Republic at a place called Clonglass in Connemara, and the other in Belfast. Both places were a hell of a long way from Limerick, and Belfast was across the frontier in Northern Ireland. It was thin stuff to work on but it was all I had and it would have to do.

  I paid for the tea and asked for, and got, a handful of loose change; then I went to look for a telephone box, which I found difficult until I discovered that the Irish paint them green. I didn’t make a call from the first box I found but took a note of the number and then went in search of another from which I put a call through to Anglo-Scottish in London. It was only a few minutes before I heard the voice of Mrs Smith: ‘Anglo-Scottish Holdings Limited.’ Her voice was warm and friendly, but that might have been an illusion on my part—I hadn’t spoken to a woman for a year and a half, apart from the one who doped me.

  I said, ‘Your telephone might be tapped—I think it is. Find a safe phone and ring this number as soon as possible.’ I gave her the number of the other box and rang off before she could answer.

  Ultra-cautious maybe, but I’m still around to prove it’s the best method. Besides, if she rang me I wouldn’t have to keep stuffing small coins in the slot during what might be a lengthy conversation. I trudged back to the first telephone kiosk and found it occupied, so I sneered at the woman through the glass until she went away, then I went inside and fiddled with the directory while waiting for the ring.

  All things considered she was prompt; the bell rang within ten minutes. I picked up the telephone, and said, ‘Stannard.’

  ‘What are you doing in Limerick?’ Her voice wasn’t as warm as it had been.

  ‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’ I said grumpily. ‘I want to speak to Mackintosh.’

  ‘He’s not available.’

  ‘Make him available,’ I snapped.

  There was a pause. ‘He’s in hospital,’ she said. ‘He was in a car accident.’

  ‘Oh! How serious?’

  ‘The doctors don’t expect him to live,’ she said flatly.

  A yawning cavity opened in the pit of my stomach. ‘Christ!’ I said. ‘That’s bad. When did it happen?’

  ‘The day before yesterday. It was a hit-and-run.’

  Bits of a deadly jigsaw began to fall into place. That was about the time that Fatface Jones had become so certain I wasn’t Rearden—and he’d had Mackintosh’s address in his notebook. ‘That was no accident,’ I said. ‘His cover was blown.’

  Mrs Smith’s voice sharpened. ‘Impossible!’

  ‘What’s so impossible about it?’ I demanded.

  ‘Only the three of us knew.’

  ‘That’s not so,’ I contradicted. ‘I’ve just hammered one of the Scarperers and he had the Anglo-Scottish address written down in a notebook. That’s why I thought you might have a tap on your phone.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Take very good care of yourself, Mrs Smith.’

  I had every reason for saying that, even apart from natural humanity. If Mackintosh died and the Scarperers also killed Mrs Smith then I’d be well and truly up that gum tree. The very best that could happen was that I’d be taken back to gaol to serve the rest of the sentence.

  And there would be more. They would nail me for an assault on a prison officer; I had kicked the Chief Screw in the face and caused him to break his leg and they’d put me away for another five years because of that.

  With Mackintosh and Mrs Smith gone I wouldn’t have a hope of proving anything. Mackintosh’s tight security system had just blown up in my face. I had lowered the telephone and a quacking noise came from the ear piece. I raised it again, and said, ‘What was that?’

  ‘How could they have known the address?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter right now,
’ I said. ‘This whole operation has gone sour on us and the best we can do is to cut our losses.’

  Her voice sharpened. ‘What happened to Slade?’

  ‘He got away,’ I said wearily. ‘God knows where he is now. Probably stowed away in the hold of a Russian freighter bound for Leningrad. It’s a bust, Mrs Smith.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said, and there was an abrupt silence which lasted a full five minutes. I became aware of a man standing outside the kiosk tapping his foot impatiently and glaring at me. I gave him the stony stare and turned my back on him.

  Mrs Smith came back on the line. ‘I can be at Shannon Airport within three hours. Is there anything you need.’

  ‘By God there is,’ I said. ‘I need money—lots of it; and a new identity.’

  ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t resume your real identity,’ she said. ‘I have your suitcase here with your clothing and passport. I’ll bring them with me.’

  ‘Stay away from the Anglo-Scottish office,’ I warned her. ‘And watch out for strange men on your tail. Do you know how to shake surveillance?’

  Her voice was cold. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday. Meet me at Shannon in three hours.’

  ‘That’s not on. Airports aren’t for men on the run. They’re apt to be full of men in my line of business. Don’t forget I’m on the run from the police and that Brunskill has just arrived in Ireland.’ I turned and looked past the queue that was forming. Take a taxi to the St George Hotel—I’ll meet you outside. I might even have a car.’

  ‘All right—and I’ll bring the money. How much do you want?’

  ‘As much as you can lay your hands on conveniently. Can you really make it in three hours?’

  ‘If I’m not held up talking to you,’ she said acidly, and rang off.

  I put down the telephone and pushed open the door. The first man in the queue said sarcastically, ‘And where would it be you’d be telephoning to? Australia?’

  ‘No,’ I assured him blandly. ‘Peking.’ I pushed past him and walked up the street.